I was born sickbut I love it
He is here on a hunt. What he is hunting for however, could be several different things (hunting for something to kill – whether creature or horse, hunting for something to cure his boredom, hunting for some trouble to get into, hunting for the pure motive of companionship). Since his lessons with the decaying monster, the trickster’s thirst for murdering developed into something even more dangerous before (it turned from a hobby into an instinctual need, it evolved from every so often to daily, it was twisted from brutally to the point to manipulated several different ways). He’s following the scent and sight of dripping blood. From the smell of the tracks, it is a young elk (perhaps one mauled by a hungry coyote but lucky enough to get away) and his salivary glands work quicker at the rich taste in his mouth.
The trickster’s bruised eyes (the left blue and white, the right blue and black) spot the prey several feet within the border of a kingdom. His nostrils draw in a slow, analyzing sniff. It has been long since he used his olfactories to detect where he might be in the land (too long they have been put to slumber, sunken and unused against a bed of tree trunks and decaying leaf matter) and even longer since he tried to determine a kingdom’s border based off the scent. Perhaps the only way he truly recognizes his location is by the landscape around him.
The chill of winter still hangs in the air, but it is slowly replaced with springtime. Melting snow lies among puddles of water, sprouting hardy plants from the tough soil, and the plains are uncommonly flat and empty. The Tundra. He wonders who rules here now (not that he’s ever truly kept up with who is in control of what kingdom; it’s all senseless babble anyway) but shrugs the thought away in favor of more hunger-satisfying ones.
With careful calculation and deft, practiced precision, the bleeding young elk is bleeding further and no longer breathing. The trickster decides for a meal-like approach and bluntly tears into the prey’s warm belly (enjoying the way the intestines spill from its splayed skin and the rush of blood that comes with it). And then he slurps up the remains, leaving the none-beating heart alone in its chest cavity (leaving it for the monster who will never eat it, but it is a constant reminder that the trickster is the student and not the teacher).
He pays no mind to who might catch him (spilling innocent blood on a kingdom’s land and then, goodness, eating it) and indulges in his meal with unabashed glee.
LOKII
